


But It Would've Been Fun

by UniverseOnHerShoulders



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst and Humor, F/M, Roleplay, Shopping, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:47:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28460385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders
Summary: The Doctor knows a great many things about his wife, but her dress size is not one of them. After grasping at several straws, he takes the only reasonable course of action: he calls Clara and enlists her help with buying his wife a dress. On the hunt for an evening gown, in a quiet shop in London, they find a helpful assistant, a nice frock, and something distinctly alien...
Relationships: Twelfth Doctor/Clara Oswin Oswald, Twelfth Doctor/River Song
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16





	But It Would've Been Fun

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes, I write sci-fi! Miracles will never cease.

The Doctor stared at the shop in front of him, a hard knot of apprehension growing in the pit of his stomach.

This particular show, tucked away down a cobbled side-street, was not as much of an assault on the senses as the many, many shops on the far busier Oxford Street, all of which he had rejected based on their garish window displays, pounding ‘popular’ music (not that popular; there weren’t enough guitars for his tastes), and spangly, skimpy clothes, all of which served as anathema either to him or to the mere idea of the woman he was embarking upon this adventure for. He rather liked that metaphor; it painted him as some sort of questing hero, rather than a gangly, awkward Time Lord who was entirely and utterly out of his depth in every way, striding through the streets of London with a lingering sense of dread and an accompanying emotion that he couldn’t quite name, but was something along the lines of ‘for-Rassilon’s-sake-why-did-I-think-this-was-a-good-idea.’ He thought it _might_ be regret; he half-wished Clara was there to ask, but he’d mumbled some vague excuses to her about having ‘things to do’ and left her in the TARDIS with a stack of marking and a couple of first editions of Jane Austen classics. _Proper_ first editions – manuscripts in Jane’s handwriting – so that when she grew bored, she could discover that Mr Darcy was once _Mrs_ Darcy, and that Emma had originally been intended to be a being from another planet (he took particular credit for that one, although it was probably for the best that Jane had removed that detail from the finished product).

The shop, as it was, had a muted and understated signage in swirling silver writing on a red background. He wasn’t sure if the place was particularly ‘prestigious’; he’d tried a couple of those shops – he’d found them on Google, in the hope that ‘expensive and famous’ might curry him some favour if he produced a shopping bag from there – before the snide, critical looks of the assistants had driven him to an angry outburst in Harrods that had culminated with him waving his platinum credit card in their faces, and then walking out and leaving them in incredulous horror behind him. He’d possibly seen a film similar to that once; cinematic spectacles did tend to blur together when one was two millennia old, although he had an inkling Clara might have made him watch it. Perhaps he should have paid better attention; she was inevitably going to spring a quiz on him about their Wednesday Film Nights sometime soon, and cheating wasn’t really an option with her sat beside him.

The Doctor blinked owlishly at the window displays. They were subdued compared to the neon colours and glitter of Topshop – what had happened to Middleshop and Bottomshop? – and New Look – again, what fate had befallen Old Look? – on Oxford Street, but rich hues and delicate… something-or-other fabric glimmered at him from the dress forms, which were old fashioned and appeared to be made of fabric, and thus were mercifully free from the Auton connotations suggested to him by the ugly plastic mannequins in the more mainstream shops. Fabric fell in soft waterfalls here, rather than shining aggressively at him in cuts that seemed _entirely_ inappropriate, and he took a deep breath as he pushed the door open and stepped inside, trying to will his hands not to tremble. Talking to people was definitely not high up on his agenda of ‘fun things to do’ (presently two-hundred and thirty-four items long, there were several notable exceptions, none of whom were shop assistants) and shopping didn’t feature on the list at all. Shopping for _this_? Well, he hadn’t the faintest idea of where to begin.

“Good afternoon, sir,” the shop assistant said, materialising out of nowhere, and he resisted the urge to leave at once. This human seemed sensible – about middle-aged, he guessed, although he was a poor estimator; dressed in clothing that didn’t reveal miles of skin; not smirking – and her presence was accompanied by soft, discreet classical music that served as a balm for his soul. “How can I help you?”

The Doctor looked around himself at the racks of garments, all of them arranged in a perfect rainbow of colours, fading from richest red to midnight blue to royal purple and then to a perfect, velvety black at the furthest end of the shop. He still wanted to run. He still wanted to abandon all hope and just _leave_ , because what did he know about any of this? What did he know about anything at all – other than the obvious, which was _everything_ , but somehow this didn’t fall under ‘everything’; there hadn’t been any classes at the Academy about this particular topic, and even if there had been, he’d have had better things to do than attend.

“I’m urm,” he cleared his throat self-consciously, his cheeks flushing a delicate pink as he continued with as much confidence as he could muster: “I’m looking for a dress. For my wife.”

“Of course,” the assistant beamed. “What sort of occasion? Is it for a specific event, eveningwear, something for dinner, perhaps?”

“I, erm…” he blinked hard. “Dinner. In Paris.”

He left out the year in which their dinner would be taking place; no need to overwhelm the poor woman.

“And is it a formal occasion?”

“Definitely.”

“What sort of colours does she like?”

The Doctor considered this question for several seconds. He had only ever seen his wife in jewel-bright hues; ruby and emerald and sapphire and sparkling silver and sometimes deepest black. He couldn’t picture her in yellow, or pastels, or any of the twee colours that the other shops had favoured, and were thankfully absent from this particular shop.

“Red,” he decided aloud, gravitating towards the colour primarily because he liked her best in red, particularly when paired with a matching lipstick. “She likes red.”

“She’s got good taste,” the assistant smiled encouragingly at him and asked: “What size is she?”

“Erm,” he frowned, entirely thrown by such a question. “I… I have no idea. Is there not a sort of… one-size-fits-all?”

He remembered, with acute fondness, the planet he had visited upon which all garments shrunk or grew to fit the wearer as appropriate. What a technological marvel; surely humanity would have developed something similar by –

“No, I’m afraid not,” the assistant gave a little laugh that seemed somewhat patronising, although he might have been being paranoid. “Do you know roughly? Is there anyone you could compare her to, celebrity-wise?”

“Erm,” the Doctor said again, trying to think of an appropriate human woman from approximately the correct time period and coming up with absolutely nothing. “Well, erm…”

An idea struck him, sudden and blindingly brilliant.

“I’ll ask Clara. She’ll know.”

“Good idea,” the assistant acquiesced, nodding as though pleased to have been absolved of her gentle probing. “I’ll leave you to make the call in peace.”

She turned and disappeared an area that was curtained off from the main shop, and the Doctor fished through his pockets until he located his phone. Dialling Clara’s number from memory, she answered on the third ring and he offered a silent prayer of thanks.

“Hello?” she said breathlessly. “What’s wrong?”

“I need to – why are you panting?”

“I ran out of class to answer the phone. I’m in the stationery cupboard. What’s happened? What’s wrong?”

“Oh,” the Doctor grimaced. He should have realised she’d be at work; he felt foolish now. “I urm, I need to ask you something.”

“Right?”

“It’s about River.”

“Right.”

Was it his imagination, or had Clara’s tone grown distinctly colder?

“It’s erm… well, I’m… we erm… we’re going to… look, I’m trying to… there’s no way to… what size would you say River was?”

“I’m sorry?!”

“What size would you say my wife was?” he repeated more slowly, as though that might help. “I need to buy her a dress and I haven’t a clue.”

“Don’t you have a wardrobe?”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t it full of - ”

“Men’s clothes, and Clara-sized clothes, and not very much else. River pillaged most of the dresses in her size about a century ago. I haven’t got a clue what size that _is_ , though.”

“So you’re asking me because…?”

“You’re a woman and you know these things.”

“This might astound you but I have met your wife precisely once, and firstly she was a data ghost, and secondly, my immediate concern was not sizing her up. Not in terms of dress size, anyway.”

“What do you…” he frowned, then chanced: “Are you jealous?”

“No!” Clara said quickly; possibly _too_ quickly. “No, of course I’m not… why would I… look, you can’t just ring me up at work and demand to know your wife’s dress size. I thought the world was ending. I thought you were going to tell me the Daleks were invading or that we were all in imminent threat from a Cyberman Death Star or something. I didn’t think I was going to be consulted on fashion choices for your maybe-dead wife.”

“The Death Star isn’t built for at least another millennium. Clara, please. I’m desp-”

“About a twelve. I don’t know. Don’t blame me if I’ve got that wrong.”

“About a twelve,” the Doctor repeated, trying to commit that to memory. “Are you sure?”

“No, I’m not sure, but I’d hazard a guess,” Clara paused for a minute, then asked in a rush: “Have you never once looked at any of the labels of her clothes?”

“No.”

“Too concerned with taking them off?”

The Doctor turned a fiery shade of red, and began to splutter as Clara laughed.

“No, I… we… no… I… that’s to say… no… of course… how dare… no… we… Clara, that’s…”

“That’s revenge for disrupting GCSE English, Spaceman,” Clara said smugly. “Now, hang up and go and buy her a dress. And for goodness sake, don’t tell her you had to ask me. You’ll be sleeping on the metaphorical sofa for a good few decades if you do.”

“Right,” the Doctor said sheepishly, still maroon. “Well, erm, thanks.”

“No problem.”

“Enjoy English.”

“I will. Enjoy dresses.”

Clara hung up before he could say another word, the ghost of a laugh echoing down the line to him. Was she bothered by being asked? Surely she couldn’t very well object; she was a human and a woman and therefore ideally situated to being consulted on such matters. He didn’t know any other human women except Kate and Osgood, and he had a vague suspicion that putting Kate Stewart anywhere near a dress would result in lasting, permanent damage to the garment, and as for Osgood… well, he’d never seen her out of jeans. Clara wore dresses. Ridiculous, short dresses in bright colours. She knew about these things.

“Did you get an answer?” the assistant said, rematerialising out of the back room with an eager expression. “Ready to start browsing?”

“Yes, erm,” the Doctor frowned. “She’s about a twelve? Ish?”

“Excellent. That’s something I can work with.”

* * *

The dress was hung in the console room in a bright pink bag when Clara opened the doors to the TARDIS two days later. She wasn’t entirely sure if that was deliberate or not; a subtle reminder that the Doctor was, at least in a very convoluted manner, both married and a widower; both on and off the market all at once. Schrödinger’s Time Lord Relationship Status.

“Evening,” the Doctor said neutrally, his back to her as he fiddled with the console. “Thought you might want to have a look, since you helped.”

Clara felt a pang of remorse then; of course he wasn’t trying to rub it in, he simply wanted to show off his efforts, like a child with a painting or a wonky clay pot. She smiled fondly as she crossed the room and unzipped the bag, revealing a red gown that was embroidered with thousands of tiny glass beads which shimmered ephemerally in the glow of the console room. It was beautiful; floor length and heavy with the weight of the detailing, it had an inherent lustre that spoke of something expensive and well-made, and as Clara held the material in her hands, she couldn’t help but feel impressed that the Doctor had picked something like this out.

“It’s… beautiful,” she admitted, trailing one fingertip over the beadwork as it caught the light. “You did really – _ow_!”

“What?” the Doctor asked, as Clara lifted her hand to her mouth and sucked at her index finger.

“It…” she mumbled, removing the digit from her mouth and scowling at the bead of blood that formed there. “It… bit me!”

“Clara, it’s a dress. It doesn’t have any teeth.”

“Something definitely… I don’t know, stung me.”

“It was probably just the edge of a bead. The woman in the shop warned me that this could happen; sometimes there’s one or two which are fired wrong and-”

“Doctor, a bead doesn’t make a perfect pinprick,” Clara held out her hand for him to examine. The bead of blood had swelled to the size of a pea, and the Doctor rolled his eyes as he looked down at the proffered hand before fumbling through his pockets, extracting a neatly folded cotton handkerchief and the sonic with a flourish. Holding the handkerchief under her finger, lest the drop of blood see fit to escape towards the floor of his ship, the sonic buzzed into life as the Doctor raised his eyebrows skyward, evidently expecting to confirm his own hypothesis – that Clara was making a fuss over nothing. However, the sonic beeped in a manner that was not entirely reassuring, and he looked down at the device with a frown, flicking through settings and then pressing the glowing green tip to the base of her finger, where it shocked her – quite literally.

“Ow!” Clara protested again. “What was that for?!”

“That wasn’t me,” the Doctor said thoughtfully, peering down at the sonic with tangible worry. “That was something in your body reacting to the sonic.”

“What do you mean, ‘something in my body’?” Clara asked nervously, examining her finger as though something might make its presence known. “There’s nothing in my body other than… well, bits of me, and this morning’s breakfast. I very much doubt that the sonic has an aversion to croissants from Tesco. Does it? Maybe it favours Waitrose, god knows with that thing-”

“Clara,” the Doctor interjected. “I think you might be right.”

“About Waitrose? I knew you were a secret classist.”

“No,” he continued, wrapping the handkerchief around her finger and wiping away the blood. “About something stinging you.”

* * *

“So, let’s get this clear,” Clara hissed, trailing the Doctor up the narrow street towards an innocuous looking shop frontage. “You’re telling me that you wandered into a shop and just happened to buy a possibly-alien dress that has now harvested my DNA?”

“It’s not _harvested_ it, it’s _sampled_ it,” the Doctor rolled his eyes. “It probably then ascertained that the DNA of a five foot two English teacher was not interesting or of worth-”

“Thanks.”

“-and rejected it.”

“How do you know it rejected me?”

“You’re alive. For now.”

“Oh, great, that’s really reassuring,” Clara folded her arms across her chest. “Not only have I maybe been rejected by an _alien dress_ , it might decide to _un-reject_ me and then kill me? This is like Tinder but a thousand percent worse, and I once went on a date with a bloke who turned up with a gecko on his head. An actual gecko.”

“Are you mainly just stung about being rejected?”

“Shut up.”

“Maybe your ego was why it rejected you. Not enough room in that tiny body once you’d factored in the-”

“Why didn’t the alien dress bite you, smartarse?”

“Wrong gender,” the Doctor said smugly.

“You told me last week that the gender binary was an inherently sexist and deeply reductive approach to understanding personal experiences of gender identity, not to mention a colonial construct that was intended to rob invaded communities of their own values in favour of Western-centric ideals of femininity and masculinity.”

“I think what I actually said was ‘gender blows’, and you added the rest.”

“Look, one of us said it, but now you’re telling me-”

“It’s a dress, Clara,” the Doctor looked at her sideways with exasperation. “I very much doubt it’s capable of ascertaining the intricacies of gender expression through its basic exploratory system. It probably scanned me and determined I am – broadly speaking – a man. You are not. It therefore likes you.”

“By which you mean it wants to extract my DNA and murder me.”

“Exactly.”

“Great! Sexist, alien, _and_ murderous.”

“Just like Jack the Ripper,” the Doctor grimaced with a dark expression. “Exactly.”

“Wait, hang on, Jack the Ripper was an al-”

“Look, you know what you have to do, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Clara clicked her tongue impatiently. “We’ve been over this.”

“You know it’s dangerous.”

“Yes, because nothing else we do is ever dangerous.”

“You can still say no.”

“Oh, you worry too much,” Clara rolled her eyes and strode towards the shop. Flinging the door open, she tossed her hair as she crossed the threshold, trying to look demanding and assertive and – oh, alright, all of the things she usually was, but more so as she announced with pomposity: “I want to buy a dress.”

The assistant smiled innocuously at her, uncowed by her manner. “Certainly. What-”

“For goodness sake,” the Doctor sighed, trailing in her wake and trying – and at least partly succeeding – to look put-upon. “I’ve told you about this, you can’t have a-”

“Oh, be quiet,” Clara stamped her foot, hating herself even as she did it. “You bought your wife a dress from here, and now I want one. A better one. A more expensive one.”

The shop assistant’s smile intensified, until she resembled something horribly akin to the Cheshire Cat. “Wives are such trouble, aren’t they?” she asked Clara sympathetically, then tipped her a wink. “Don’t worry, I’m sure eventually that’ll all work out in your favour. Is your boyfriend paying?”

Clara kept her face carefully impassive as the shop assistant drew the natural conclusion from her words; words she’d carefully chosen to elicit such a response. She hadn’t run it past the Doctor; even now, his eyes widened in horror and his nostrils flared, and he began at once to splutter:

“I’m not… she’s not… we’re not…”

“Oh, I know,” the assistant said soothingly, turning her attention to him and shooting him a sympathetic look. “‘Boyfriend’ is such a difficult term, isn’t it? Such connotations of adolescence. How about ‘man-friend’?”

“I’m not her… her… anything!”

“We’ve had this argument so many times now,” Clara paused for a beat, then turned to look at the Doctor and forced herself to say: “Darling. It’s a silly argument, especially when we both know I’m right, so why don’t you sit down and give the nice lady your credit card, and not worry your silly little head about girly things, hm?”

She shot him the kind of look that screamed _shut up and do what I say!_ , and mercifully he took the hint, although he did so with an expression akin to someone sucking not so much lemons as orbs of hydrochloric acid. Clara forced herself to give a girlish titter, offering a silent apology to any and all women’s rights activists from the past, present and future who would be turning in their graves – or beds, she supposed, or… oh, whatever – at her actions.

“He’s such a daft thing,” she cooed to the assistant, as the Doctor sank sulkily into a seat beside a rack of gowns and subtly extracted the sonic screwdriver from his pocket. “He hasn’t a hope in smoothing things over with his wife – taking her for dinner in Paris, honestly! Like that’s going to solve the fact that she knows _all_ about me…”

The shop assistant echoed her earlier titter, leading her over to a rack of gowns. “Men are such blessedly uncomplicated beasts, aren’t they?” she said in a low voice, her tone thick with sympathy. “Now, you’ll be wanting something much more expensive than what he bought for her, yes?”

“Oh, definitely,” Clara purred, reaching for a black gown with a five-figure price tag. “Something that’ll really cause a row when she sees the credit card bill…”

“Absolutely,” the assistant exchanged a wicked, conspiratorial look with her. “Something that’s really going to get the wife’s goat. What’s she like?”

“Oh, you know,” Clara couldn’t bring herself to slag River off in the Doctor’s hearing, not even for the benefit of their little role play. “The archetypal wife. I met him at a work do. He’s my boss – isn’t that cliché? But he’s just… you know, he’s shown me _wonders_ …” she put a smutty edge to her tone, and the assistant smirked. “He says he’s going to leave her, but if he won’t then I just have to do my absolute _best_ …”

“You needn’t worry,” the assistant assured her, patting her arm in a maternal way. “You never know, perhaps something might happen in Paris…”

“Like what?” Clara asked, keeping her tone casual.

“Oh, a trip… a fall… a mugging… any number of things. Your gentleman might come back unencumbered with a wife, and then there won’t be anything in your way.”

Clara pretended to contemplate this prospect as she held out a clinging silver gown with a price tag that was approximately one-third of her annual salary.

“True,” she murmured thoughtfully. “Can I try this one?”

“Absolutely,” the assistant agreed, taking the hanger from her and stalking towards the back room like a woman on a mission. “The changing area is just back here.”

Clara shot the Doctor a sidelong glance as she passed him. He was scanning the rack of dresses surreptitiously, his face a mask of studious boredom that might be sincere and might not. He gave a tiny nod as she strode past him, and she tried to take courage from that; from the knowledge that he was right here and ready to leap into action if necessary – not that it likely would be, she hoped, but still; backup was always a good idea.

The assistant showed Clara into an enormous changing area with a cubicle to one side and mirrors along one wall. Clara stepped behind the curtain and unzipped her boots with reticence, starting to peel off her layers of clothing as the woman unlaced the back of the dress for her, brushing it down with her fingertips and arranging the fabric so that it caught the light.

“This one is a very unusual piece,” the assistant said reverently from the other side of the curtain. “One of a kind… hand-crafted with care for one very special customer. You see the way the fabric sparkles? That’s a very unique effect that we’ve worked extensively with the designer to perfect. You won’t find a dress anywhere like it in London…”

Clara, now down to her underwear, stepped out of the cubicle and examined the dress with a mounting sense of apprehension. “Where was it made?” she asked, as the assistant brought it over to her, puddling it at her feet so that Clara could step into it. The fabric was icy cold against her skin, and Clara shivered. “Is it imported?”

“Oh, yes,” the assistant said brightly, helping Clara into the gown and beginning to lace up the complicated back, threading ties through loops and pulling them taut. “Not from anywhere you’ve have heard of, though.” Each word was punctuated with a tug on the laces, and Clara began to feel uncomfortably suffocated as the dress grew tighter and tighter. “It’s… well, it’s a long way away, and not very widely known outside of its solar system.”

“Outside of its… what?” Clara gasped, her ribs screaming in protest as the woman tied the laces off and stepped back to admire the overall effect.

“Outside of its region!” the assistant corrected herself, a flash of anger passing across her face. “Now, what do you think?”

Clara admired her reflection in the mirror. It _was_ a beautiful dress; there was no denying that. Tight though it was, it clung in all the right places; it accentuated her figure and caught the light magnificently, shimmering like a thousand stars. Still…

“It’s a little too long,” Clara managed. “It might need to be…”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” the assistant purred. “I doubt you’ll live that long.”

“You… what?” Clara frowned, as the dress suddenly constricted further, growing tighter and tighter of its own accord. “Wh…”

“Not to worry,” the assistant smiled maliciously as the pain grew more and more acute. “This’ll be over in a flash.”

With the last of her energy, Clara screamed.

* * *

The Doctor felt a distinct sense of unease as he stood with one hand on the curtain of the changing area. On the one hand, Clara had screamed; on the other, he had little desire to see his friend in any state of undress, lest embarrassment be caused on either of their parts.

 _She’d rather be embarrassed than dead_ , his conscience noted, and the Doctor grimaced before yanking open the curtain without further do.

Clara was crumpled on the floor, taking shallow, gasping breaths as thin, silver wires criss-crossed the skin of her arms and shoulders. Stood over her was the shop assistant, cursing as she fiddled with something small and remote-like, and –

She turned to the Doctor and he sucked in a breath.

“A Carrionite,” he said with fury, taking in the assistant’s changed appearance; her leathery skin and pointed teeth. “What are you doing on Earth? What have you done to her?”

The creature hissed in fury. “Not a Carrionite!” she protested indignantly. “My cousins might be better known but I am far cleverer than they, and far more efficient!”

“You’re an-”

“Ollerite, yes.”

“What do you want with Earth? With Clara?”

“Oh, nothing,” the Ollerite cackled, turning a dial on the device in her hand, and Clara let out a shriek of agony, a spasm gripping her body as the wires began to glow. “Nothing, except her life force. Did you really think I didn’t know you the second you stepped inside here? That I didn’t know her? My little probe had already scanned her, and now she’s providing me with an ample amount of fuel.”

“Fuel?” the Doctor asked, circling the room and keeping one eye on the creature and one eye on Clara, who was now laying deathly still, her breathing growing increasingly shallow. “What do you mean, fuel?”

“I crashed here almost a decade ago. My ship requires organic fuel from a willing host, and so I merely used my skills to fashion a way to lure people to me, and to act as donors to help get me off this primitive rock.”

“What kind of…” the Doctor’s eyes widened in horror as he suddenly understood exactly what she was referring to. “You’re using a plasma drive? They were outlawed by the Shadow Proclamation under sub-section-”

“Oh, please,” the Ollerite snapped, waving her free hand dismissively. “What those ludicrous bores don’t know won’t hurt them.”

“But you’re hurting people. You’re _killing_ them.”

“Yes, well…” the creature sniffed tetchily. “Refuelling is taking a little longer than planned.”

“What do you mean?”

“There is…” she sniffed again. “Some sort of leak in the device. It is hard to gather enough donor energy.”

“So why limit yourself to women?” the Doctor asked with a frown. “Why not use men as well? Why restrict your pool of victims?”

“I…” the Ollerite snarled. “That is little concerned of yours.”

“It’s every concern of mine,” the Doctor countered in a reasonable, winning tone. The colour was draining from Clara’s skin; he knew he had only minutes. “Plasma drives aren’t gendered; they don’t care about where they get their plasma from; what species or gender. Unless… unless…” the penny dropped. “You don’t _have_ a plasma drive. You’ve had to make one; convert it out of another machine. You weren’t the pilot of the ship, were you?”

“I…”

“You were a prisoner. Held in stasis by a DNA-encoded plasma-cell. You crash-land here, your jailer dies upon impact, and you convert your plasma-cell into a nice little illegal motor to try and get you home. Of course, it doesn’t matter what species the donors are, as long as they’ve got a chromosomal makeup that’s roughly akin to yours – fatal flaw in your biology, there – but that limits you to those with an XX chromosome. Which of course, strictly speaking, doesn’t limit you to women, but you wouldn’t understand or care about that, would you? You just want off this planet, even if that involves murdering thousands of locals.”

“They deserve it,” the Ollerite spat with malice. “They imprisoned me-”

“No, one of their kind imprisoned you, probably far in the future. You can’t punish them for that, and certainly not when this planet is under my protection.”

“What are you going to-”

“Stop you, of course.”

“And how are you going to that?”

“Like this.”

* * *

Clara’s ribs ached. As she clawed her way back to consciousness, that was her first thought; her ribs screamed in protest as though she’d done ten rounds with Muhammad Ali, and she felt oddly limp, and distinctly cold. Taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes and found herself sat on the floor of the TARDIS, wearing nothing more than her underwear, with the Doctor’s jacket draped around her shoulders. She felt an immediate flush of embarrassment and looked around for something to cover herself with, but even as she did so a blanket was dropped over her head.

“Hey!” she protested feebly, clawing her way out of it and wrapping it around herself at once. The Doctor strode into her field of vision, leaning against the console with a worried expression.

“How are you feeling?” he asked with sincerity.

“Awful,” she confessed, rubbing her sore ribs experimentally with one hand and wincing. “Like I’ve been run over, several times. What happened?”

“The assistant was an Ollerite. Cousin of the Carrionites – nasty race from Rexel Four. She’d crashed here on a prison transporter and converted her holding cell into a replacement drive for her ship, but she needed organic material to power it. That’s where the dresses came in.”

“The dress… it tried to suffocate me, and then there were these… wires…” Clara gestured vaguely, looking down at herself and finding the skin of her shoulders and arms freckled with myriad tiny red dots. “Was that what it was doing?”

“Yeah,” the Doctor grimaced as he continued: “Harvesting your plasma.”

“Oh, nice. How did you…”

“It was programmed to only accept plasma from those with an XX chromosome. I don’t know what I am, not in your terms – probably the entire alphabet – but I hooked myself up to it and overloaded the system. The shop blew and took her with it, but the dress… it wouldn’t release you. I had to cut it off you in the street. Thank god it wasn’t rush hour; would’ve got some _very_ weird looks..”

“Hang on,” Clara held up one hand. “Are you saying you ripped clothes off me in public and then carried me through London-”

“In my jacket! I’m not a complete idiot!”

“Couldn’t you just have saved my clothes? I _liked_ those shoes.”

“I’m _so_ sorry, I was a bit busy trying to make sure we didn’t both die in a fiery inferno.”

Clara’s cheeks flushed as she grinned at him shyly. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“At least I wore matching underwear today.”

“Yes, well,” it was his turn for his cheeks to redden. “Erm. Well. Yeah.”

“Do me a favour, yeah?” she continued wearily. “Next time you want to buy clothes for your wife… maybe just ask me for a recommendation. Don’t wander into any fake alien shops.”

“Right,” he muttered. “Yeah, er… good shout.”

“Now,” she shivered. “A cup of tea would be nice, ta. And maybe a lift to my room.”


End file.
